Case 1589: His Earlier Crimes
by Shelly Lane
Summary: While fighting Ratigan on the hands of the clock tower, Basil has flashbacks to some of Ratigan's other crimes. (The "Big Ben Caper" in the first chapter is a pun because they're fighting on the clock; it's not the crime mentioned in Ratigan's song, and the cover image is "Basil Street," but the computer cropped it during the upload.) Disney owns everything.
1. The Big Ben Caper

**The Big Ben Caper**

I have many fond childhood memories of challenging my only friend, who was as a brother to me, to battles of wit involving a chessboard. How was I to know the day would arrive when he truly would treat all his men as pawns, allowing me to capture them easily? Indeed I never dreamed he should entrap me and endanger my queen!

"You really ought to be careful around that rat!" my siblings would warn. "He's sure to stab you in the back one of these days!"

"Why should Padraic Ratigan stab me in the back when my own brother and sister are only too eager to do as much?!" I always retorted.

Had I but heeded their warnings! Yet even now, I cannot regret extending my friendship and accepting his, even though losing such a friend has profoundly grieved me.

A rat's claws are the approximate width of a mouse's body. The daggers that tear through my jacket in repeated attempts to sever my spinal cord, or perhaps disembowel me if a sideswipe should prove successful, cause more exsanguination than I care to admit. Were I weaker mouse, I should writhe in utter torment from the agony, but I am Basil of Baker Street, representative of justice and personification of wit. I am forced to admit I feel slight discomfort, but nothing more. However, if my back is torn even half as badly as my jacket, I fear I shall have a few contusions tomorrow. If I were given to fits of panic, I should believe recovery to be no simple task, if I were ever to regain my health at all.

It hardly matters. Ratigan may do as he will. I am quite certain that before the tintinnabulation of Big Ben announces the changing of the hour, we shall both have met our demise. If plummeting from such a great height is inevitable, I care not a whit whether any of my arteries are ripped asunder. My adversary has no wounds whatsoever, and he shall perish as rapidly as I when the precipitation causes us to slip from the hands of the clock face. If my neck and skull do not fracture instantly as I strike the pavement at the base of the tower, my battered remains shall no doubt experience a most excruciating death.

I am grateful for my inner strength. A more cowardly mouse would cry out as the rat's claws struck his already throbbing back yet again. He would give his opponent a pleading look, silently begging for mercy, and he would begin to welcome thoughts of the grave, for then he would no longer be aware of the merciless flaying. This wretched creature would be unable to conceal the fear in his eyes, and his mind would wander to the careers of recent acquaintances, such as pondering whether or not a military surgeon would be able to save his life if the buffeting were to cease that very instant.

Perhaps certain events of his life should cross his memory.


	2. Headlines in Every Newspaper

**Headlines in Every Newspaper**

How could it be true?!

No matter how many newspapers I read, I was unable to accept the conclusion that my only friend had now become my greatest enemy. Even when Ratigan placed a gun to my head and nearly pulled the trigger, I simply couldn't bring myself to believe that he was a felon! We had enjoyed the pleasure of each other's acquaintance since we were young children, and now we were destined to be rivals until the day of his execution or my murder!

Clandestinely, I hoped my demise should occur before his. Why should I enjoy longevity after seeing the one who had been my closest friend breathe his last on the gallows?

However, I was selfish to think as much. If I were to perish and the world's greatest criminal mind were to survive, he would continue taking lives. For the good of Mousedom, it was my duty as an investigator to bring Ratigan to justice.

Surely there must be an alternative. Suppose he were to be arrested and sentenced to a prison term. If he were to reform in prison, he would have a second chance at life as soon as he was released.

The more newspaper articles I read, the less I was convinced of this theory. It seemed as implausible as the idea of my chemistry set producing an elixir that would cure my tightening throat and stinging eyes. A mouse who was not striving to be the greatest detective in all Mousedom may very well have wept over the loss of a superlative friendship that was now to become the epitome of rancor, but I, Basil of Baker Street, am incapable of feeling any manner of emotion, and even if it were possible, I would not express myself in such a ludicrous manner.

Ratigan also seemed to have difficulty adjusting to our roles as adversaries. Nearly half a year passed before he could resist civilly touching the brim of his hat when we were in the same proximity. I know not how much time elapsed before I could cease staring at him in disbelief, having read of his recent crimes but still not fully accepting the fact that he had become malevolent. How unnatural it seemed when we first began to insult each other! Now it seems abnormal to recall that we were once close friends.

However, he was hardly the only criminal in the empire. There were other cases. Quite early in my career, I was investigating a robbery in Winchester when the Ingham Incident occurred, and I was rather sorry to have missed the opportunity to solve such a case.

From what I read in the newspapers when I returned to London, the entire Ingham family had been discovered dead. Mouseland Yard suspected Ratigan and his men had murdered the Inghams in order to seize their vast fortune, yet not one clue remained to indicate the killers. I'm certain that if I had been in London at the time this heinous crime was committed, I would have been able to find some manner of evidence. Ratigan and his accomplices would have been arrested, and I would have been spared several years of severe migraines, not to mention attempts on my own life.

It seemed as if all of Mousedom lamented the tragic fate of the Ingham family, for they were superfluously wealthy mice who believed that fortune is a blessing given to some in order that they might help others. They had donated millions of pounds to orphanages, hospitals, homeless shelters, schools, and other organizations that they believed would advance the empire by improving the lives of individuals.

The Ingham Incident may have been the "perfect crime," but Ratigan was by no means the perfect criminal. His earlier crimes had me oftentimes chuckling as I smoked my pipe, yet still he bested me, escaping arrest as he plotted what next he could swipe.

He once plotted to kidnap widows and orphans, place them in his dirigible, and drop them into the Thames unless he was given a great sum of money. (As he had already disposed of the Inghams, I must admit I was rather perplexed as to why he would need more wealth.) However, the police arrived and rescued the hostages as Ratigan attempt to make repairs on his flying machine, as he should have done the previous evening.

The Tower Bridge Job was some elaborate plot combining theft and murder, but the night Ratigan intended to commit this heist, he was taken into custody and interrogated by several members of Mouseland Yard. Although he was released less than an hour later, his scheme had been ruined.

If Ratigan had been working alone, he might have been apprehended easily, but his criminal ring was by far the most dangerous in Mousedom. They praised their leader's accomplishments, lauding each as if he had succeeded, exaggerating as necessary. Eventually, Ratigan was no longer satisfied with having a reputation for successfully achieving these felonies; he would not rest until he had lived up to such infamy.


	3. The Tower Bridge Job

**The Tower Bridge Job**

"Good morning, officers," I greeted, suppressing a yawn. "Do you often buffet doors this stridently before dawn?"

The constable frowned. "Mr. Basil, this is rather urgent. We need you to follow us to the Thames at once."

Donning my Inverness cape, I hastened after them. The many cases I had already solved were hardly adequate preparation for the ghastly sight that met my eyes before the rising sun had signaled the break of day.

Corpses lined the banks on either side of the river. Many were saturated with blood. It was nearly impossible to tell whether they had drowned or perished from the bullets that had become lodged within their bodies. Most were elderly, infirm, or under ten years of age. The conclusion that many were widows or orphans seemed rather credible.

"There are a great deal more in the river itself." The constable motioned to where a boat was sailing near Tower Bridge. "From what we can tell, they fell from the bridge. Those who drowned were left in peace, but anyone who tried to swim to safety was shot. Some washed ashore after they died. Others swam to the shore, as they intended, but perished shortly afterwards."

"Do you know of anyone who might have done this?" queried the second officer.

Even though I had not yet detected the slightest trace of evidence, I was firmly convinced that this was Ratigan's work.

"How odd!" the constable remarked, checking his watch. "The hour changed no more than two minutes past, and I failed to hear the toll of Big Ben."

"I didn't hear it either. Did you, Mr. Basil?"

"When we have concluded our investigation here, we must reconnoiter the vicinity surrounding the clock tower," I stated.

Upon our arrival, we noticed several humans staring at the faces of the clock tower. The hands of each face displayed a different time, and the hands all remained completely motionless. Even Mr. Holmes, who was conversing with Inspector Lestrade, seemed most baffled, especially when someone mentioned that some of the Crown Jewels were missing.

I nearly shuddered. My greatest adversary was fully capable of committing more than one atrocity in the same evening, and he was so ingenious that he could flummox the greatest detective that ever lived, Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself. I hardly dared envision what would occur the day Ratigan plotted against me. Ending my life would be elementary for such a mastermind.

If I were an ordinary mouse, I may have felt fear, doubting that my own astuteness could so much as match, let alone surpass, the cunning of my opponent. Perhaps regret may have crossed my mind as I considered what contributions such an intelligent mind could have made to improve society if only the heart were not as dark and bitter as the night of winter solstice. I daresay I might have succumbed to the temptation of surrendering to a bout of hopeless depression as I considered how effortlessly Ratigan could outwit me.

However, as I have previously stated numerous times, I never feel the emotions of average mice. I am far too professional to engage in such frivolities.


	4. Cunning Display

**Cunning Display**

Although I hardly approved of any manner of oppression of the innocent, very few of Ratigan's crimes vexed me as much as the Regent's Park Robbery.

Regent's Park is a lovely area near Baker Street. Even with all the humans and carriages that crowd the street, Toby can walk from his home, the flat above mine, to the park at a leisurely pace in only a few minutes. Many mice stroll through this park to converse with the waterfowl and pigeons or simply to enjoy a short respite from the teeming city.

It also seems to attract visitors from foreign countries. Once as I was sitting on a bench, observing the mice that passed, I noticed a young lady jotting down notes in a book she carried. From what I could deduce, she had been attempting to find the legendary Baker Street that she had read of in so many newspapers, but having taken a wrong turn, she had found herself in Regent's Park; however, as she had no doubt read of its beauty in several of the books at her local library, she seemed rather unperturbed to have come here rather than her intended destination. When I saw her remove a small map from her pocket and begin looking over the street names, I offered my assistance.

"You're Basil of Baker Street!" she exclaimed, recognizing me at once. "I can't believe I finally have the chance to meet you!"

I could tell from her accent that she was American. Judging from her shy manner, she was from a small town and felt a bit unsure of herself in such a large city as London; however, she was certainly doing her best to appear more confident than she felt. Noticing that she frequently placed her hand near her throat, I deduced that she greatly feared a cutpurse would rob her of the necklace she wore, an item of jewelry that was no doubt of great sentimental or financial value. Although I did not peer into the book she carried, I inferred that she either kept a journal of her experiences abroad or else was an authoress who used events of her travels as inspiration for fictitious works. This was blatantly her first time in London, for she made no effort to conceal her childlike fascination as she stared at the most ordinary buildings as if they were the Crown Jewels.

A few days later, I read in the newspaper that there was to be an opera for charity. Some of the most talented opera singers in Mousedom were to give a brief performance in Regent's Park in an attempt to raise money for a hospital that specialized in pediatric care.

Knowing Ratigan was never one to miss an opportunity, I first alerted Mouseland Yard, suggesting that they send a patrol to the hospital to keep watch. I next disguised myself and walked to the park. Although I had no evidence that Ratigan was plotting anything, I knew he despised all philanthropic actions.

I had underestimated his cunning. Not so much as one member of Ratigan's criminal ring arrived. I might have known my adversary would never commit such a blatant felony in the presence of so many witnesses. Such an offense would be the work of a novice delinquent, hardly fitting for the world's greatest criminal mind.

Returning home from an errand a few days later, I noticed quite a few ashes scattered on my porch. Upon closer examination, I deduced that some were from cigarettes, but others were the remains of mice who had either been burned alive or cremated after their demise.

Ratigan was clearly boasting that he had succeeded in the crime I had failed to prevent, but who had he murdered? Were these patients at the hospital or members of Mouseland Yard who had stood guard that evening? Were they perhaps his own men or already deceased mice he had unearthed from the cemetery? What had he done with the money he had no doubt stolen from the hospital?

How could I prove Ratigan had committed this felony? The only evidence I had was that the lawbreaker smoked cigarettes, but that could be nearly any delinquent in Mousedom. This would never be considered enough to convict him in court.

As I wandered through the park later that afternoon, I noticed foreign coins adorning each bush as ornaments on a yuletide tree. Many mice were puzzled by their appearance, but none dared remove any, for there were signs warning that the coins must not be touched.

A lesser mouse would have struggled with feelings of self-loathing when he realized how incompetent he had proven himself to be, but I, Basil of Baker Street, am hardly such an inferior mouse. However, I had committed what some might assume to be a rather grave error, even though I am never mistaken.

Ratigan had been fully aware I would apprehend him if he attempted to steal the money meant for the hospital, yet he knew I would suspect him of causing trouble for the charity workers. While I was thus occupied ensuring that he would do no such thing, he had been free to plot a crime of the most sinister nature only a few blocks from my residence, a felony that escaped my notice due to my focus on the philanthropic action.

The sewer rat had been robbing and murdering those who were not residents of England! These poor souls were no doubt the source of the ashes I had discovered on my porch. As if causing the loss of innocent lives wasn't a cruel enough act in itself, Ratigan was seeing to it that the economy of Mousedom would suffer, for if London became infamously hazardous for visitors, none would dare travel here. If these murders continued, dignitaries and ambassadors may fear for their own safety to the point where they discontinued trade with Mousedom.

There was no doubt in my mind that Ratigan had done this, placing the ashes and coins as a cunning display not only to demonstrate what he had done, but also to remind me that although I had no doubt that he was the one responsible, I also had no proof. That fiend was most likely enjoying infinite peals of hearty laughter every time my back was turned, for a detective has the appearance of a fool if he fails to notice such dastardly deeds so near his own home!

I have often wondered about that American mouse with the book, the young lady I had met only a few days before this trouble began. It is my most sincere hope that she was merely passing through London and had returned safely to her native country before Ratigan had the chance to harm her. It is my fear that she never saw her homeland again. I shall never know whether or not she survived.


	5. The Real Tour de Force

**The Real Tour de Force**

As everyone is aware, many of the greatest mice in the history of the empire are buried at Westminster Abbey, most of them former royalty or exceptional writers. However, the police never expected to find a corpse in front of the door.

The hapless victim was Inspector Conan, head of Mouseland Yard. Judging from the miniscule feather near his lips and the lack of visible injury, I deduced that he had been suffocated by having a pillow held over his face. It was painfully obvious that this murder had been intended to dishearten every investigator in the empire, and a lesser mouse would truly have felt rather unnerved, but I am Basil of Baker Street. At this point in my career as a highly trained professional, I had lost count of the number of felons I had apprehended, including a few dozen of Ratigan's men. I most certainly did not clasp my hands together so tightly that my knuckles blanched when I saw the corpse of such a skillful investigator who had suffered his demise at the hands of an even more astute felon.

Upon opening the door of Westminster Abbey, I observed a ghastly sight I would gladly have avoided if it were not my duty to bring murderers to justice. Seven police officers and five more members of Mouseland Yard lay on the floor as if peacefully slumbering, yet I knew they were not. Every mouse's hands were tied behind his back, and there were markings on each neck, indicating the cause of death was asphyxiation by some manner of cord, most likely a rope.

"They've been hanged!" I concluded aloud. "Whoever committed this atrocity saw to it that the necks were not fractured, thus prolonging death by several minutes. The assassin no doubt took great pleasure watching them suffer. Furthermore, I would deduce this was the work of a lawbreaker who has committed enough crimes to deserve capital punishment. This fiend has no doubt seen accomplices breathe their last on the gallows, a fate to be shared by this murderer as soon as we have managed to capture him! The idea of law enforcement officials being executed by a felon is a mockery of justice itself, intended to cause feelings of inferiority among those of us left alive."

"You referred to the murderer as 'him,'" a constable remarked. "What makes you so sure the killer isn't female?"

"I have precisely one suspect in mind," I replied, "and I'm certain of this villain's gender."

"It's someone you've read about in the newspaper or met personally?"

My voice was barely audible, yet before I could regain my composure, I felt my lips forming the words, "He was my only friend."

I silently recalled one day over a decade past when Padraic and I had amused ourselves by feigning that we were visitors to London. We toured St. Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, and other places we had often passed without the slightest glance. Our game delighted us so immensely that we cared not a whit as precipitation began to pelt us mercilessly, even though neither of us had thought to bring an umbrella. However, as we passed the clock tower, the bell began tolling to announce that the hour had changed.

"I never cared to hear the pealing of Big Ben during a storm," I confessed. "For some reason I cannot elucidate, for there is no logical explanation, no matter how I introspect, the tintinnabulation reminds me of anguish if I hear it when precipitation falls."

"Poetry," my friend had responded. "The poems we have to study in school always associate rain or bells with funerals, and when you hear Big Ben toll during a storm, that's a combination of rain and bells, so you subconsciously start thinking about sad topics."

"Rather plausible," I agreed.

"Don't worry," he assured me. "It's all in your mind. It's not as if you're actually going to witness the death of someone close to you, albeit someone who has wounded you deeply, as rain pelts you both just as the hour changes."

I nearly laughed. "Indeed, it is most illogical."

Padraic had then smiled and slapped my shoulder lightly, taking care to avoid felling me as a woodcutter would fell a sapling. In all the years I had known him, he had never once caused me any harm, even unwittingly.

Little did I realize the day would eventually arrive when he would attempt to end my life for the twenty-seventh time.

"Mr. Basil?"

The constable's voice roused me from my reminiscences.

"I've no evidence to convict him in court," I stated, "yet I am fairly certain I know who has committed these murders."

Despite an investigation that lasted nearly an entire fortnight, I found no proof that Ratigan was the eradicator. However, every time convicts were sentenced to capital punishment, the corpses of hanged law enforcement officials, in addition to a few judges and lawyers, were found in public buildings.

Having been advised by Mrs. Judson that perhaps reading would clear my mind, thus enabling me to discover a clue I had previously overlooked and apprehend the assassin, I decided to visit the public library. Unfortunately, Ratigan was already there. Unaware of my presence, he was reading a nonfiction work concerning cats, a rather unusual subject for any rodent author to use as the topic of his or her book.

"Liars, every last one of them!" Ratigan muttered. "This book says kittens love to bat things around if you tie it to a string, but Felicia wouldn't bat a tied sardine if that was her only food for a week!" After a pause, he added, "Or would she? Perhaps I should try…" Glancing up, he noticed me.

"You're under arrest!" I informed him.

Ratigan grinned. "On what charge, sleuth?"

"All of them, sewer rat! Everyone in Mousedom knows you've committed every felony imaginable and several of your own invention."

He continued to smirk. "Everyone may know that, Basil, but can anyone prove it in a court of law? I am entitled to a fair trial, you know. You wouldn't want to lose your job by having a larger mouse like me lynched, would you? Even you must be smart enough to know it would be considered discrimination."

"Mark my words, Ratigan! I shall not rest until I've seen you behind bars!"

My nemesis shrugged nonchalantly. "I go behind a lot of bars, Basil. That's where all the good alleys are. However, I must say I prefer to be behind respectable pubs rather than bars." He resumed reading.

It later occurred to me that he had mentioned his desire to see his pet kitten bat around some object on a string. Had he gotten the idea of hanging mice dedicated to justice, beginning with the Westminster Massacre, because he had wished to see the cat use the corpses at the end of the ropes as toys?

Even though I am typically the first to agree with the sage maxim of refraining from judging a stranger, I was not overly optimistic about the possibilities of cordial acquaintanceship with this Felicia creature.


	6. Tricky and Wicked

**Tricky and Wicked**

Although I assisted in solving crimes that affected London as a whole, my primary objective was to be of service to individuals. I was perfectly at ease in the company of wealthy clients, yet I would never turn away the impoverished, for it was my solemn duty and greatest honor to see that justice was served for all, regardless of social or economic status. However, I was entirely perplexed when I returned home from an errand one afternoon to find an inebriate on my porch.

He was clutching a bottle of liquor, staggering around as if attempting to knock on the door if he were able to keep his balance. The stench of strong whiskey saturated the air surrounding him.

"What brings you to my door?!" I demanded brusquely.

The intoxicated mouse hiccupped.

"Be gone at once!" I ordered.

"I need to see Baker of Basil Street!" he replied in slurred speech. "I need to tell him something!"

Rolling my eyes, I opened the door. "Step inside, but do be brief!"

He scraped his shoes against the porch to remove any excess mud before stepping into my home, after which he politely removed his hat.

"For an inebriate, you have an extraordinary grasp of courtesy," I remarked aloud.

"Thank you, sir," he answered without the slightest trace of speech impediment. "I'll waste no time. You must hurry to Windsor Castle at once. If not, I fear the worst."

"Who are you?" I queried. "Why would you feign intoxication in order to warn me concerning a plot involving Windsor Castle? Did someone send you? How do I know this isn't a clever ploy intended to entrap me?"

"My name is Sholto," he answered. "Stapleton of Baskerville Hall tightens the speckled band for the sake of Carlo Rucastle. I fear if you are not at Windsor before dawn tomorrow, there will be a terrible price."

"You're speaking more illogically now than you did under the pretense of having consumed too much liquor!"

Tipping his hat, he left without another word, staggering as he left the flat and continued down the street. I seated myself in a comfortable chair and contemplated his message as I smoked my pipe.

"Sholto" was the surname of twin brothers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes had once encountered. Their first names were "Thaddeus" and "Bartholomew," and unfortunately, the latter had perished before having the chance to meet Mr. Holmes. However, I was reasonably sure that my unusual visitor had been implying that his given name was the same as one of theirs. If he were speaking in some manner of code, it was highly improbable that his last name was truly "Sholto."

Stapleton of Baskerville Hall was a man who had used a vicious dog to assist him in committing murder. There was no doubt in my mind that the mouse who had spoken with me had been attempting to give me information about Ratigan, who was still determined to train his nearly grown kitten to execute mice on command. That being, I deduced that this cat was who my guest had meant when he mentioned Carlo Rucastle, for "Carlo" had been the name of a mastiff belonging to a human by the name of Mr. Rucastle, and this dog had also caused a few deaths.

Mr. Holmes had once solved a mystery involving a speckled band, which turned out to be a venomous snake. Surely my visitor's mention of it suggested hatred, cruelty, or other metaphorical poisons.

As for the "terrible price," this clearly indicated some manner of ransom.

I considered the potential translation of the coded message: _Ratigan commits another felony in order to poison the cat's heart by attempting to teach her the pleasures of cruelty. This crime will take place this very night at Windsor Castle, and an item of great value, perhaps a living being, may be held for ransom._

No wonder my guest had feigned a drunken stupor! If he were one of Ratigan's men, he could be executed by his boss or arrested by myself. The atrocity must be truly heinous if this mouse would take such a risk in order to involve me in this case. There was still a chance this might have been some manner of devious ruse intended to ensnare me, yet I had to chance it.

I wasted no time hastening to Windsor. It was a long journey from London, and a lesser mouse would have felt exhausted after traveling such a great distance, but I, Basil of Baker Street, was determined to apprehend the world's greatest criminal rat. When I arrived that night, I remained hidden, watching to see what events would transpire.

"Take anything you fancy," a voice ordered the others with him. "I could use such exquisite decorations at home! And you, keep throwing those documents into the fireplace! I don't want any legal paperwork or historical artifacts left in the entire castle!"

I would have recognized that voice anywhere. It was Ratigan, at last caught in the act of one of his infamous crimes!

"Ain't this treason, boss?" asked Fidget, one of Ratigan's favorite employees.

"No," Ratigan answered, "it's insolence. It would only be treason if the queen were here, but she's at Buckingham Palace at the moment." He chuckled menacingly. "We'll see if she still loves this castle when she finds her chandeliers destroyed and her furniture broken! Oh, and one more thing. I think there are a few important mice who are still here. I want you to kidnap one of them and see what the others will pay for ransom."

"If they're still here, then why didn't they wake up when they heard us ransacking the place?" queried a lizard.

"Chloroform." Ratigan held out a cigarette, which his men promptly lit for him.

"You've slipped this time, you villain!" I exclaimed, stepping out of hiding. "I have you now!"

For a moment, Ratigan seemed stunned. Then he enjoyed a peal of hearty laughter.

"Where are the police?" he demanded. "Right now, it's your word against mine. Other than your testimony, there's still no evidence that we were the ones who caused the Fall of the House of Windsor."

"There will be as soon as you dare to kidnap anyone here!" I retorted.

My nemesis waved his hand in a dismissing gesture. "Take him outside."

I was promptly taken to the garden on the grounds of the castle and tied to the nearest tree.

"What is the meaning of this?!" I demanded. "Surely you're aware that my presence here, alive or as the remains of your latest victim, will be enough to convict any of you in court!"

"The boss said to leave you out here until the storm passes," the lizard explained. "Isn't that right, Henry?"

A mouse nodded. "Sure is, Bill!"

I expected them to leave, thus unwittingly presenting me with a chance to liberate myself, but they merely opened their umbrellas and stood vigil during the storm.

"You honestly believe this will hinder me?" I nearly laughed. "Such weather is rather common, and as I'm quite accustomed to it, slight precipitation can render me no harm!"

"That's what you think!" The insufferable grin on Ratigan's smug face was nearly too much to bear as he explained, "When one is as stressed as you are, Detective, the discomfort of a slight chill, such as cold air or rainfall, can be enough to cause a virus to cease being dormant."

"Your plan is to cause me to fall ill with some manner of catarrh?"

"A cold?" His wicked laughter was not at all pleasant. "Hardly! You see, Basil, when any other mouse has a cold, that mouse will go to the apothecary for some cough syrup, stay home and relax with some hot tea or soup, and perhaps consult a doctor if the cold still lasts after a few days. I know you to be a stubborn, prideful fool who wouldn't go to the apothecary, let alone ask for a physician's assistance, if his life depended on it, nor would your arrogance allow you to admit feeling too weak for work. You'll feel the symptoms of a cold, but you'll continue solving cases, never once having given yourself the chance to take a few days off or find the right medicine, and your slight cold will gradually become worse…"

"I'm to meet my demise of pneumonia then?"

"Yes!" He patted my head condescendingly. "And all because you're too obstinate to accept the fact that you get sick sometimes like everybody else does."

Ratigan turned to his nearly grown kitten. "Do you see how fun it can be to be evil, darling? You ought to try it!"

Felicia looked annoyed. She didn't cower before him, as she had often done during her infancy, but she didn't seem entirely convinced that cruelty was pleasurable either. In fact, it seemed like the only thought on her mind was how she despised being awake at such an unearthly hour, and during a storm, no less.

I cared not a whit. Although I had not succeeded in apprehending these corrupt scoundrels, I had at least managed to prevent an abduction.

The plan to murder me was nearly successful. A lesser mouse would indeed have gotten pneumonia, but I, Basil of Baker Street, have never been unhealthy a day in my life. Mrs. Judson fussed a great deal, insisting that I purchase some cough syrup from the apothecary at once because my coughing was keeping her awake all night. I argued that I needed no manner of medication, for I was perfectly hale. She stated that I ought to speak with a physician before my lungs became entirely full, thus asphyxiating me.

Once more, I assured her that there was no need to fret; I was entirely well. However, the tea she served me began to have a different flavor than that of which I had grown accustomed. When I inquired if she had been attempting to place some sort of herbal remedy in my tea, Mrs. Judson assured me that my sense of taste had changed slightly due to my illness, nothing more. Ironically enough, the occasional cough I'd been having cleared up in a few days, even though I most certainly had not been ill.

"What did I tell you, Mrs. Judson? I have never in my life been unwell!"

She smiled as if she knew something I didn't. "Let's see if we can keep it that way, Mr. Basil."

The tea she served began to taste once more like what I typically consumed. In fact, the only remaining problem was the memory that haunted me every night before I drifted into a state of restful slumber. So often in childhood, I had explained to my only friend, this rat who was as a brother to me, the logic behind my mistrust of healthcare practitioners. Padraic had always smiled warmly and given the same reply.

"You mustn't sneer at doctors. The day may come when one saves your life."

I, Basil of Baker Street, owe my life to a physician?! Ha! That shall be the day I am knighted!


	7. An Even Grimmer Plot

**An Even Grimmer Plot**

Ratigan and I formed a long history of destroying each other's plans. At times, he would prove more clever, knowing where and when to strike. Other times, I would interfere with his plans, occasionally preventing crimes it had taken him several weeks to plot, or else finding enough evidence against him that it was nearly a month before he dared attempt so much as a misdemeanor. Then there would be times when he succeeded in some parts of his felony, yet I managed to interrupt his scheme before it was complete.

His international crimes generally caused me severe migraines. I shall never forget the trouble he caused in France and Spain, let alone his misadventures in India. Thankfully, he rarely ventured so far from London, preferring to limit his personal empire of crime to Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. An ordinary mouse who had visited these countries as frequently as I, or even half as often, would most likely intermittently dream in an accent different than his or her own, but I, Basil of Baker Street, am never troubled by unusual dreams.

That isn't to say that his plots that occurred in London, as most did, were any more simplistic to foil. I clearly recall the time of the Lambeth Larceny.

At first it was nothing more than an increase in petty theft, such as removing items from the pockets of others without their consent. A few trinkets began disappearing from small shops, but this was hardly the ingenious scheme of a demented mastermind. The most novice delinquents in Mousedom could do as much.

However, it wasn't long before shops were robbed. In my experience as an investigator, theft from small businesses typically involves the removal of the contents of the cash register and any items of significant financial value. Robbers seldom desire anything else.

During the time of the Lambeth Larceny, shopkeepers opened their doors in the morning only to find completely bare cupboards. Even inexpensive items or those that would be of no service whatsoever to thieves or other felons had been stolen.

While I was still investigating this case, many of the finest banks in London, no longer limited to the Lambeth district, were robbed. I was certain this was Ratigan's work. He no doubt intended to instill fear throughout the entire city, thus adding to his notoriety. He would see to it that he remained superfluously wealthy while the economy of Mousedom was utterly damaged.

As if in answer to my suspicions, banks throughout England were soon plundered, as were a few in Scotland and Wales. Reports of piracy also increased, and although I never found the slightest inkling of evidence to indicate that Ratigan had been hiring sailors to steal from seafaring mice, I am firmly convinced that he was responsible for this violation of the law, for he loved power above all else. No doubt he relished the idea that not a corner of London, or anywhere else in Mousedom, for that matter, was safe while he was at large, for there was no evil scheme he wouldn't concoct, nor was there any depravity he wouldn't commit. To be sure, there were other criminal masterminds in London, yet the vast majority of cases I have investigated were the dastardly schemes of either Ratigan himself, one of his colleagues, or someone wishing to gain his favor.

I was taught from a young age that pessimism is never the proper solution to any problem, for the moment one believes that life cannot possibly exacerbate, one finds oneself very much in error. Every situation can easily become worse, and it shall certainly do so if one dwells on such thoughts. I know not in a philosophical sense whether or not I believe as much, but I do know that criminals often attempt to surpass even their own ingenuity.

Just when the police were entirely convinced that there was no manner in which the Lambeth Larceny could worsen, the felons responsible began stealing the most precious items of all: living beings. Infants began disappearing from orphanages, and as Ratigan's criminal ring had no use for adoption, I shudder to think what nefarious fate came to pass for those unfortunate children. Comely young ladies, both rats and mice, began leaving London at an alarming rate. (To this day, I remain uncertain if Ratigan and his men ever plotted anything directly against women or if these ladies merely fled due to the prevalent fear of these ruffians. Perhaps the young women simply wished to raise their respective families in a more benign environment.)

After a few months, the felons were satisfied. There was still the occasional bank robbery to remind us all that there were those who had more power over Mousedom than Queen Moustoria herself, but I suspect that even being the horror of the empire's every waking moment grew monotonous after several weeks. There were other felonies to commit, not to mention that continuing the same manner of delinquency for an extended period of time greatly increases the chances that one will err in such a way that leads to one's apprehension, quite possibly one's execution as well.

I suppose a lesser mouse would begin to grow frustrated after years of attempting to capture a certain felon, all to no avail, but Detective Basil of Baker Street is never exasperated. Never in my life have I given up, admitted defeat, or believed I strove in vain and should never see Ratigan placed behind bars, and I most certainly have never fallen into a state of melancholy to the extent where I did not rise from my bed for three days; I merely played the violin or stared at the ceiling. Rarely do I feel any manner of emotion at all, and when I do, I can hardly consider such to be bouts of depression.


	8. Even Meaner

**Even Meaner**

Is there a soul in all Mousedom who has not heard of Oxford University? Often during our youth, Padraic and I would discuss which of us would graduate Oxford first, for it was the university we both favored.

"It will probably be you," he would remark. "Since I want to be a professor so I can teach at a university, I'll have to go to school for longer than mice who want to teach younger children."

"You'll make a fine professor if you can ever choose a subject," I would reply.

He was highly intelligent, and as a result, he was never certain whether he would care to instruct advanced mathematics or physics. I was most fortunate to have him as my tutor, for he not only assisted me in passing my mathematics courses, but he also taught me to understand the subject to the point where I became somewhat skilled at it. (At the time, I'm certain he was entirely unaware that his lessons would one day save my life after an elaborate plot involving a mousetrap.)

As if he wasn't having enough difficulty in choosing between physics or mathematics as a future profession, Padraic was also fond of nearly any form of music. His skill on the harp was second to none, and he was the only one I knew who could dance with vigor without becoming breathless as he sang.

However, we were still young children, so we hadn't the slightest concern, despite our lengthy discussions. We rested assured that as there were several years ahead in which to make more definite plans for our respective careers, we would have ample opportunity to confirm our decisions later in life.

Sadly, neither of us ever had the chance to graduate Oxford, or anywhere else for that matter. Even if this had come to pass, I sincerely doubt it would have prepared me for the night of the Oxford Arson.

Having been invited by the university to present a lecture to students enrolled in classes concerning law, I graciously accepted. Instead of my typical attire of a deerstalker cap and inverness cape, I dressed as a professional businessman. The students were an eager and attentive audience.

"Are there any inquiries?" I queried during a pause in my lecture.

One of the few female students in the room raised her hand.

"Yes, miss?" I responded.

"Detective, do you smell smoke?" she inquired.

Frowning, I opened the door. There was indeed the scent of smoke coming from the direction of the library. Advising the students to leave the room calmly but without delay, I began my investigation.

I do wish I had been more surprised at the turn of events, but after years of pursuing Ratigan and his men, there were hardly any felonies they could commit that would startle me. It seemed only natural that such insidious fiends would have set the library on fire. When Ratigan saw me enter the library, he laughed malevolently.

"Guard the doors!" he ordered his men. "I want a few of you outside each window as well! Make sure he doesn't escape!"

How could I have been so blind?! Ratigan had surely hired spies, who had informed him that I would be lecturing at Oxford, so he had devised a clever plot to entrap me and have me burned alive!

There wasn't a snowball's chance in the Kalahari Desert that I was going to allow him to watch my demise without at least making an attempt to escape. Surely if I refused to panic, my wits would once more come to my aid, thus rescuing me from what would appear to be inevitable doom.

I observed that one window was guarded by some of Ratigan's most injudicious henchmen. If they captured me, I could surely outwit them. Seizing an encyclopedia, I hurled it at the window, which cracked slightly without breaking. I hardly had the luxury of as many throws as I wished, for the sound of heavy books buffeting the window would surely draw Ratigan himself nearer than I would care for him to be. My next attempt would have to prove successful, or I would need to employ a different strategy.

Before I could fling the next book, a rather large dictionary, I overheard one of Ratigan's men, who was standing near the door, remark, "This smoke is burning my eyes something awful! He's not coming out through this door if he's even half as smart as he thinks he is! Let's get out of here before we roast! The boss will never know!"

Hearing the sound of retreating footsteps, I hastened to the door, ignoring the flames. By extraordinary luck, I was soon outdoors, covered with soot but not at all scathed.

"You little sneak!" Ratigan opened a bottle. "I knew if there was a way to escape, you'd find it." He proceeded to dump the contents over my head.

"What do you hope to accomplish by covering me in brandy?!" I demanded.

Without a word, he lit a match.

A lesser mouse would have exclaimed, "I understand your rancor all too well, but in the name of our youth, could you not content yourself to have me shot, or perhaps impaled with a dagger if you would prefer?!"

A lesser criminal would then have sighed dejectedly, perhaps lightly gripping the mouse's shoulder, before lighting his jacket on fire.

However, Detective Basil of Baker Street does not plead for mercy, and the world's greatest criminal mind, Professor **_Rat_**igan (sewer rat, to be precise) does not feel remorse.

Tossing aside my jacket, I immediately threw myself to the ground, attempting to smother the flames, no easy task when one has been saturated in brandy. To my immense relief, I noted a body of water nearby. A human would step over such a puddle with ease, but to a mouse, it was a temporary lake. Without the slightest thought of dignity or sophistication, I dove into the murky water and splashed as a young child at the beach, thus quenching the flames and preserving my life.

As Ratigan and his men collapsed helplessly in a fit of laughter, I seized the opportunity to begin my return to Baker Street before a third murder attempt could be made. Mrs. Judson was not at all pleased when she saw me.

"Mr. Basil!" she scolded. "I've left crumpets in the oven too long before, and they didn't look nearly as burned as you do! You ought to take yourself to the nearest hospital at once, and shame on you for waiting so long to do it!"

"Perhaps my shirt is a bit scorched," I concurred, "but although my fur is a bit singed, I'd hardly consider myself to be covered in serious burns, as you so imagine."

"If you're not hurt, prove it!" Mrs. Judson challenged. "If the hospital says you're alright, I'll apologize for demanding that you go there, and I won't ever insist that you need help again!"

"I have nothing to prove. I am not injured."

"Your paws are shaking from the pain you're in!"

"I don't even feel slight discomfort," I argued nonchalantly. "That being, how could my paws tremble as a sign that I suffer great anguish?"

"For such an intelligent mouse, you're acting quite foolish! Which is more humiliating, having a brief conversation with a physician or looking like you just crawled out of an oven?! Is it really worse to use some sort of salve to relieve your pain than it is to sit around writhing in agony?!"

"Mrs. Judson," I sighed wearily, "we've had similar discussions innumerable times. There hasn't been a member of the Basil family who has trusted anyone involved in practicing medicine since the days of the mouse who lived in the home of a human called Hippocrates. Who am I to disgrace the sacred tradition of my ancestors? Moreover, everyone in my family history who entrusted a physician lived to regret it!" I frowned. "No, that is not entirely accurate. Many of them perished."

"Have you thought perhaps there have been advances in healthcare, and medical science is better now than it was in the Dark Ages?! Besides, if anyone interested in medicine is either a criminal or an imbecile, how do you explain the friendship Mr. Sherlock Holmes shares with Dr. John Watson?!"

I shrugged. "Dr. Watson assists him with cases. That does not necessarily prove that he serves as a personal physician to Mr. Holmes."

"How do you know he doesn't?! I wouldn't be surprised if…!"

Although ignoring others is hardly a courteous habit of a gentleman, I was feeling what a lesser mouse would consider fatigue, but I, Basil of Baker Street, never suffer from exhaustion. However, I found it easier to cease paying attention to the remainder of Mrs. Judson's rant, for my mind was begin to ponder whether or not a brief rest would prove beneficial.

It wasn't more than half an hour later that she returned from the apothecary with some manner of balsam, which she informed me was to be placed on my burns if I expected her to prepare any meals for the next week. Even though I was entirely unscathed, I had learned over the years that there were times it was easier to humor Mrs. Judson than prove myself right, so I did as she requested. A lesser mouse would clandestinely have been grateful for the soothing relief of the ointment, but as I had no burns and thus was in no pain, I found it a completely unnecessary hassle.


	9. The Best of the Worst

**The Best of the Worst**

I can scarcely believe it.

As I kneel before Her Majesty, Queen Moustoria, it still seems most perplexing to think that Professor Ratigan will never again commit another crime. I have all I need as evidence to convict him in a court of law: the wreckage of the robot built by the felon's hostage, several witnesses willing to testify that they saw Ratigan commit high treason, the bell he used to summon his cat to murder disobedient henchmen and innocent citizens alike, slight tears in my jacket from the fiend's claws…

What came to pass on the hands of clock tower was truly a fight for our lives. If I had survived, Ratigan would surely have been hanged. That being, we both knew it was our final confrontation, for in order to have the slightest chance of extending his own life, he would have to end mine. Our innumerable conflicts over the years resulted in one final battle.

Who has proven victorious?

I kneel before the queen to be knighted, yet I am quite certain that if I were a lesser mouse, I would be forced to admit I was bleeding to death, feeling myself gradually becoming weaker as massive exsanguination soaked the borrowed jacket, which I had gratefully donned, as rapidly as torrents of precipitation during a storm. An ordinary mouse would no doubt be unable to enjoy his knighthood ceremony due to the utter torment of his agony.

However, I am Sir Basil of Baker Street, and I care not a whit whether or not my back aches so dreadfully that I can scarcely move my arms. In a cruel twist of irony, I also find myself unable to delight in the highest honor in all Mousedom. There isn't an investigator in the empire who hasn't dreamed of being the one thanked by Her Majesty for seeing Ratigan brought to justice, yet although I smile graciously, I wish this fate on any detective other than myself.

Ratigan is dead.

I knew I had merely been deceiving myself, yet I had always hoped he would reform in prison if I apprehended him, and upon his release, we should resume our friendship. Now I am no longer granted the foolish belief that this may yet come to pass.

Who has proven victorious? Ratigan is dead; thus he cannot feel the extent of his most serious injuries: the stabbing pain of a broken heart or the heavy weight of a crushed spirit. His throat is not so tight that he can barely breathe, and his eyes do not sting dreadfully as if he were standing too close to smoke. He will not live until the day of his retirement or experience longevity, eventually dying peacefully in his sleep after living several more decades from this night. He has not been wounded deeply by someone who was once close to him, prior to watching his former companion perish as the clock bell tolled during a storm.

Although he was once my only friend and we were as brothers, it is true that Ratigan and I loathed each other for years. I often wondered how I would feel if Ratigan perished. Would I partially feel elated at being rid of my rival while feeling slight remorse that none existed who could ever challenge my wits to such an extent? I envisioned any manner of emotions I may have experienced would prove most complicated, yet now that this day has arrived, it's rather elementary: I have survived, and my friend has perished.

I silently scold myself. I remind myself of all the innocent lives that are no longer in danger, and I recall the various attempts on my own life. Furthermore, I truly am grateful to have had the chance to be of service to our gracious queen, although I would have preferred if her life had never been in danger at all. What a disgrace I am to all who strive to see justice served! What law enforcement official does not work to succeed in keeping the empire safe, as I have done this very day, and who would be ungrateful for the opportunity to accept knighthood? I also know that if I'm to be completely honest, I lost my friend years ago. The rat who perished this evening was blatantly my enemy.

Although I humbly keep my eyes lowered as our queen continues her brief speech, I cannot resist a brief glance at the mouse kneeling beside me. This Dawson fellow is frowning slightly. Confound him! I dare wager he has noticed the slight red stain already growing on my sleeve! Physicians never can resist any opportunity to interfere in matters that do not concern them!

He is indeed a most peculiar mouse. He seems as if he truly cares about the needs of others, even rodents with whom he has barely become acquainted, and although he lacks vulpine wit, he has managed to draw my attention to certain details that greatly assisted me in solving this case. Moreover, Mrs. Judson insists that Dawson can nearly match my obstinacy, although I haven't the slightest notion what she means, for I am never obstinate; however, I will admit he certainly understands quite a bit about conversing properly.

I should very much enjoy his company if he were to consent to remain at Baker Street, for he intrigues me. Working this case with him has nearly reminded me of the pleasures of friendship, a form of contentment I have not experienced since my youth. I had not realized until now how much I had missed amiable conversation or someone with whom I could share my adventures.

Perhaps I should ponder some manner to convince him to stay. He could assist me with future cases. As Dawson currently has nowhere else to reside, this arrangement would benefit him as well.

However, he can forget this ludicrous notion of examining my back and tending any wounds he may find! In the first place, I have no intention of entrusting a physician with my health, especially not the same mouse who only hours earlier made a complete imbecile of himself after consuming drugged liquor. Second, I am not injured. The dampness between my shoulders is precipitation, nothing more, and it shall do me no harm. Perhaps I received a few minor abrasions, but the exsanguination must surely have finished by now, and lastly…

Lastly, if I may be pardoned for stooping to the level of including colloquialism in my personal dialect, who gives a rat's tail? My friend is dead, and I am knighted. I care not a whit for anything else, yet as if the events of this evening were not troubling enough, I now have a physician insisting that I place myself in his care because he believes I have been mortally wounded!

I rise from my knees as I am bidden, observing as Queen Moustoria addresses her loyal subjects.

"I present to you Sir Basil, the great mouse detective."

The crowd cheers for the one who has indirectly murdered his former best friend, and I attempt to conceal the red marks on my jacket. If I were an ordinary mouse, I might have the displeasure of experiencing both physical exhaustion and mental fatigue, not to mention emotional instability, but as I have previously stated, I am Sir Basil of Baker Street, and there are innumerable rodents who look to me to preserve justice, and it is my most sacred duty to ensure I do not fail them.

For now, I prepare myself for yet another dispute. Dawson looks as if he has something on his mind, and he will no doubt begin another quarrel as soon as we step away from Buckingham Palace. How shall I ever manage to convince him I am entirely unscathed when I myself am beginning to doubt such a claim?

That is to say I would begin to doubt as much if I were a lesser mouse, but I am Sir Basil, the great mouse detective, and I am incapable of feeling any manner of emotion, especially self-doubt.


End file.
